"Well, well, well!" he exclaimed at last. Then again: "Well, well!"
"What is it?"
"See here," and The Thinking Machine took the hundred-dollar bills in his own hands. "These bills, perfectly new and crisp, were issued by the Blank National Bank of Butte, and the fact that they are in proper sequence would indicate that they were issued to one individual at the same time, probably recently. There can be no doubt of that. The numbers run from 846380 to 846395, all series B."
"I see," said Hatch.
"Now read that," and the scientist extended to the reporter the telegram Martha had brought in just before Hatch had gone away. Hatch read this:
"Series B, hundred-dollar bills 846380 to 846395 issued by this bank are not in existence. Were destroyed by fire, together with twenty-seven others of the same series. Government has been asked to grant permission to reissue these numbers.
Preston Bell, Cashier."
The reporter looked up with a question in his eyes.
"It means," said The Thinking Machine, "that this man is either a thief or the victim of some sort of financial jugglery."
"In that case is he what he pretends to be-a man who doesn't know himself?" asked the reporter.
"Than remains to be seen."
IV.
Event followed event with startling rapidity during the next few hours. First came a message from the Chief of Police of Denver. No capitalist or financier of consequence was out of Denver at the moment, so far as his men could ascertain. Longer search might be fruitful. He did not know John Doane. One John Doane in the directory was a teamster.
Then from the Blank National Bank came another telegram signed "Preston Bell, Cashier," reciting the circumstances of the disappearance of the hundred-dollar bills. The Blank National Bank had moved into a new structure; within a week there had been a fire which destroyed it. Several packages of money, including one package of hundred-dollar bills, among them those specified by The Thinking Machine, had been burned. President Harrison of the bank immediately made affidavit to the Government that these bills were left in his office.
The Thinking Machine studied this telegram carefully and from time to time glanced at it while Hatch made his report. This was as to the work of the correspondents who had been seeking John Doane. They found many men of the name and reported at length on each. One by one The Thinking Machine heard the reports, then shook his head.
Finally he reverted again to the telegram, and after consideration sent another-this time to the Chief of Police of Butte. In it he asked these questions:
"Has there ever been any financial trouble in Blank National Bank? Was there an embezzlement or shortage at any time? What is reputation of President Harrison? What is reputation of Cashier Bell? Do you know John Doane?"
In due course of events the answer came. It was brief and to the point. It said:
"Harrison recently embezzled $175,000 and disappeared. Bell's reputation excellent; now out of city. Don't know John Doane. If you have any trace of Harrison, wire quick."
This answer came just after Doane awoke, apparently greatly refreshed, but himself gain-that is, himself in so far as he was still lost. For an hour The Thinking Machine pounded him with questions-questions of all sorts, serious, religious and at times seemingly silly. They apparently aroused no trace of memory, save when the name Preston Bell was mentioned; then there was the strange, puzzled expression on Doane's face.
"Harrison-do you know him?" asked the scientist. "President of the Blank National Bank of Butte?"
There was only an uncomprehending stare for an answer. After a long time of this The Thinking Machine instructed Hatch and Doane to go for a walk. He had still a faint hope that some one might recognize Doane and speak to him. As they wandered aimlessly on two persons spoke to him. One was a man who nodded and passed on.
"Who was that?" asked Hatch quickly. "Do you remember ever having seen him before?"
"Oh, yes," was the reply. "He stops at my hotel. He knows me as Doane."
It was just a few minutes before six o'clock when, walking slowly, they passed a great office building. Coming toward them was a well-dressed, active man of thirty-five years or so. As he approached he removed a cigar from his lips.
"Hello, Harry!" he exclaimed, and reached for Doane's hand.
"Hello," said Doane, but there was no trace of recognition in his voice.
"How's Pittsburg?" asked the stranger.
"Oh, all right, I guess," said Doane, and there came new wrinkles of perplexity in his brow. "Allow me, Mr. - Mr. - really I have forgotten your name--"
"Manning," laughed the other.
"Mr. Hatch, Mr. Manning."
The reporter shook hands with Manning eagerly; he saw now a new line of possibilities suddenly revealed. Here was a man who knew Doane as Harry-and then Pittsburg, too.
"Last time I saw you was in Pittsburg, wasn't it?" Manning rattled on, as he led the way into a nearby cafe. "By George, that was a stiff game that night! Remember that jack full I held? It cost me nineteen hundred dollars," he added, ruefully.
"Yes, I remember," said Doane, but Hatch knew that he did not. And meanwhile a thousand questions were surging through the reporter's brain.
"Poker hands as expensive as that are liable to be long remembered," remarked Hatch, casually. "How long ago was that?"
"Three years, wasn't it, Harry?" asked Manning.
"All of that, I should say," was the reply.
"Twenty hours at the table," said Manning, and again he laughed cheerfully. "I was woozy when we finished."
Inside the cafe they sought out a table in a corner. No one else was near. When the waiter had gone, Hatch leaned over and looked Doane straight in the eyes.
"Shall I asked some questions?" he inquired.
"Yes, yes," said the other eagerly.
"What-what is it?" asked Manning.
"It's a remarkably strange chain of circumstances," said Hatch, in explanation. "This man whom you call Harry, we know as John Doane. What is his real name? Harry what?"
Manning stared at the reporter for a moment in amazement, then gradually a smile came to his lips.
"What are you trying to do?" he asked. "Is this a joke?"
"No, my God, man, can't you see?" exclaimed Doane, fiercely. "I'm ill, sick, something. I've lost my memory, all of my past. I don't remember anything about myself. What is my name?"
"Well, by George!" exclaimed Manning. "By George! I don't believe I know your full name. Harry-Harry-what?"
He drew from his pocket several letters and half a dozen scraps of paper and ran over them. Then he looked carefully through a worn notebook.
"I don' know," he confessed. "I had your name and address in an old notebook, but I suppose I burned it. I remember, though, I met you in the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg three years ago. I called you Harry because everyone was calling everyone else by his first name. Your last name made no impression on me at all. By George!" he concluded, in a new burst of amazement.